Defender(62)

From a surveillance perspective, Turner's regimented routine was a gift. If an enemy had a desire to pinpoint him, day or night, the chances were better than even that he could.

Lundt felt as though he'd done this kind of thing a thousand times before, sitting in darkness, analysing the patterns of an enemy's activity. 'Time spent in reconnaissance is never wasted'; advice that had been drummed into him all those years ago as a young soldier always found its way back to him.

Lundt sat evaluating the man he'd come for. The man he'd come to kill.

When the evening meal got underway, the chef pottered around the kitchen, ready to respond to last-minute requests. Then he went outside. He sat smoking and lazing around by the back door until the butler emerged from within the house, joining him for a smoke and announcing irreverently rhar His Lordship had released them for the evening.

Lundt was close enough to hear every word, and they didn't have a clue. He maintained his scrutiny of the two, as stamping out their cigarettes, they set about cleaning the kitchen. Choosing his moment, Lundr slipped swiftly past them and into the house undetected.

That had been at 1945 hours; it was now 2100.

Lundr waited patiently for the sounds of activity to die down, signalling the departure of the staff and the opportunity to confront Turner alone. He was already familiar with the layout of the house. Ir was all too easy.

Ar 2110, he eased himself from the refuge of an empty walk-in-robe located in one of the plush guest rooms on the second floor. With delicacy and practised handling, he turned the knob and smoothly aided the door open. He stepped swiftly into rhe bedroom and, with a sweeping gaze to take in his surrounds, was at the main doorway in a second. With the soft light of the hallway brushing his rigid features, he stepped out, walking hard up against the wall on the balls of his feet, senses on full alert, tingling and alive across every inch of his body. Inthe blackness, he froze for seconds between each movement, straining to listen for the slightest hint, or threat of discovery.

The Malfajiri operation had fallen apart. Lundt was exposed. Tying up loose ends, loose lips, was essential to his survival.





CHAPTER 39





Farnham, Surrey





Walking out into the cold, grey morning, his breath forming frosted swirls about his face, Alex Morgan realised how much he'd missed his early morning run through town - up the hill past Farnham Castle and out along the back road to Odiham and Fleet. Much had happened over the past weeks, including attending a very private funeral service for Sean Collins. Morgan was consumed by an irrepressible frustration that he hadn't hunted down Lundt for selling out Collins, and for what he had been responsible for in Malfajiri and London. But the hunt wasn't possible. The trail had gone stone cold.

Locking the door of his house, he took a moment and savoured the icy morning air stinging his nose and ears. It had been over two months - before Malfajiri - since he'd last been able to strap on the trainers and pound some miles. Whenever he was at his modest semi-rural sanctuary, he enjoyed the comfortable familiarity of a morning run. But these past weeks, as he recuperated under the watchful eye of doctors and physiotherapists, there'd been no running. Of course, he'd swallowed down the pain when he had been with Ari. He'd had no choice. Neither of them knew how much time they would have together.

Distracted, Morgan reversed his metallic black Jaguar XFR out of the driveway of his home at number 10 Truro Road, on the outskirts of Farnham. The Jag was the great-grandson of his beloved 1958 British Racing Green XK 150, which was kept safely garaged back at his other home in Sydney. He considered the XFR generally as a reward, figuring he'd earned it along the way.

Morgan eased the Jag out of Truro Road and headed for the A31, bound for INTREPID Headquarters in London, forcing his mind away from private matters and back to work. Today would be his first day back on full duty and he was scheduled for firearms training on the range. Finally, things were getting back to normal. Morgan's ribs still ached, although they were as good as healed and his doctor was pretty happy with his progress. In fact, he'd been lucky that a combination of factors had served to minimise most of the damage. Dull pain pervaded much of his movement, but Morgan was starting to feel like his old self again following the rehabilitation merry-go-round he had endured to get his bruised and battered body back into operational shape. He had to get back in the game and find Lundt, the sooner the better. Above all, he had to remain focused. He spent a few seconds thumbing through his iPod, searching for something to match his mood. His blood was up and he was starting to feel like his energy and thirst for action were returning to him. Ah, perfect, he thought, selecting 'State of Emergency' by The Living End.